


January 1881

by MagnetoTheMagnificent



Series: Summer Omens [8]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale-centric (Good Omens), Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cold Crowley (Good Omens), Cold-Blooded Crowley (Good Omens), Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Historical References, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Lonely Aziraphale (Good Omens), Near Death Experiences, Other, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), Stressed Aziraphale (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:13:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25736350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnetoTheMagnificent/pseuds/MagnetoTheMagnificent
Summary: The blizzard of January 1881 was one of the worst blizzards to hit the UK. During this time, Aziraphale finds himself desperately trying to keep Crowley from freezing to discorporation, but there's only so much one angel can take before breaking down.Written for @thetunewillcome's Summer Omens prompt 'Ice'
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Summer Omens [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845238
Comments: 4
Kudos: 112





	January 1881

Aziraphale was yanked out of his copy of The Iliad by frantic pounding at his shop door. He jumped from his armchair and opened the door.  
A gust of ice-cold wind entered the shop when the door opened, and the angel winced. He could always warm himself up with Divine Grace, but he was shocked by the sudden chill. 

“M-may I come inside?” he heard a meek voice ask.

He looked down. A young boy, likely no older than fourteen, was standing outside in threadbare clothes, shivering. For as far as Aziraphale could see outside, there were drifts of ice and snow and swirling wind. The weather had changed quite dramatically from when Aziraphale started reading his book. 

“Of course, certainly,” Aziraphale said quickly, ushering the boy inside and closing the door behind them.

“T’thank you,” the boy said gratefully, rubbing his hands together.

Aziraphale frowned at the snow and melting ice falling on his floor from the boy’s clothes. 

“You must be freezing,” he remarked with rehearsed politeness, “I’ll get the kettle on.”

“You’re very kind, sir,” the boy mumbled. 

As the snow and ice continued to drip onto the floor, Aziraphale realized the boy would only ruin his shop if he didn’t do anything.

“You’ll do nothing but catch your death wearing those clothes, lad. I’ll go fetch some clothes you can wear. Don’t touch anything.”

The boy stood with wide eyes as Aziraphale left the room, too stunned to move. 

Aziraphale rummaged through his trunk, trying to find clothes that might fit the boy. His own clothing would certainly not fit the boy’s small frame, but perhaps if he could find some of Crowley’s old pieces-  
Aziraphale froze.  
 **Crowley.**

The windowpane rattled with the howling wind, and Aziraphale suddenly felt sick.   
Crowley had been sleeping for the past eighty or so years, and Aziraphale had made it his duty to make sure nothing happened to him during that time. But how long had it been since he stoked the furnace keeping his old friend from freezing to death?

The angel grabbed a shirt, trousers, and socks and hurried downstairs.   
He shoved the clothes in the boy’s hands.

“Feel free to make yourself tea, and help yourself to any food you need. If you touch any of my books, I’ll know,” he told him gruffly, throwing on his coat and hat.

“Where are you going?” the boy asked incredulously.

“I have an errand to run. Stay as long as you need, lad, and don’t overstep my hospitality.”

“But it’s Hell out there!” the boy protested as Aziraphale headed out the door. 

“You have no idea,” Aziraphale muttered, and stepped out into the whirlwind. 

As he trudged through the blizzard, Aziraphale tried not to overreact. Perhaps Crowley woke up, and added coal to his furnace to keep himself warm. Perhaps the coal didn’t run out, and Crowley was still kept warm in his slumber.   
He reached Crowley’s house, and dusted the snow off his coat before unlocking the door.  
Inside, he noted, was no warmer than outside, and Aziraphale’s stomach sank. He scrambled down the dark hall into Crowley’s chambers, silently praying that he’d find the demon well. 

Crowley was still sprawled on his bed where Aziraphale had last seen him, but he looked horrifically different.   
He was paler than usual, with a deathly blue tinge across his skin. His unblinking eyes were blurred over, and a thin layer of frost covered his frail body. When Aziraphale touched his hand to Crowley’s cheek, he was aghast to find that it was like touching ice.

Fearfully, Aziraphale reached out to Crowley’s corporal aura, which was almost nonexistent. His corporal body was dying.

Aziraphale felt dizzyingly overwhelmed with anxiety and dread. He and Crowley had both been discorporated over their thousands of years on Earth, but this was the first time he had been faced with seeing another celestial entity, let alone his friend, discorporating. From what Crowley had told him, demons that were discorporated outside of devilish battle were tortured, the manner of their discorporation reenacted over and over. Hell had no place for weakness. If Crowley discorporated, Hell would ravage him. 

He swayed on his feet, panicking, the vision of his oldest friend suffering playing over and over before his eyes. Desperately, he tried to ground himself. He had to stay alert, he had to stay coherent. Crowley needed him. 

With great trepidation, he forced himself to look at his ailing friend, focusing on the reality of the moment, centering himself. He took shaky and unsteady breaths, slowly returning, slowly calibrating. 

Right. 

He had to focus, he had to be strategic. He would bring Crowley back from the brink, because he didn’t know what he’d do if he failed.   
He outlined what he would do out loud, comforting himself in having a plan. 

First, the coal. He would have to get the furnace to blaze again.   
He left Crowley’s side to bring coal to the furnace, and he painstakingly kindled the wrought oven until a steady flame burned. Now that he had an external source of heat, he could focus on warming Crowley. 

During some bloody war whose name escaped him, he had remembered that during the coldest nights, the soldiers would huddle skin to skin to keep themselves warm. Aziraphale carefully removed his clothes until he was wearing only his undergarments. Once he was undressed, Aziraphale hesitantly turned to his friend. It was wildly inappropriate, Aziraphale thought, and though he knew he was saving his life, the angel still felt he was violating his friend. With trembling and gentle fingers, he peeled off Crowley’s nightclothes, distressed that beneath his clothes, the demon’s body was just as pale and sickly. He grimaced, and tenderly gathered Crowley’s stiff body in his arms and held him against his chest.   
Cradling Crowley close, he moved as close as he safely could to the furnace, and eased himself and the demon onto the floor, now warm from the heat of the fire. He positioned Crowley close to the fire, so that he would be receiving the maximum amount of heat.

Lying on the hard floor, Aziraphale couldn’t contain his anguish anymore. He sobbed bitterly, overwrought with stress, apprehension, and anger. He knew angels weren’t supposed to be emotional beings, but he had always been different, more human, for better or for worse. It was usually easier to cope when he had Crowley, because although they were certainly not alike, they could relate to each other.   
But Crowley had been asleep for eighty years, leaving Aziraphale feeling terribly alone. Sure, there were humans that he was familiar with, could even call friends, but no one knew him or understood him like Crowley. If Crowley discorporated- he may never return to Earth, and worse still, Aziraphale would know that his truest friend was being subjected to the worst of oppression. 

For two days, Aziraphale didn’t move from Crowley’s side except to replenish the coal. For two days, Aziraphale was in a state of terror, silently begging Crowley to recover. By the third day, Crowley’s corporal aura was strong enough that Aziraphale stopped worrying that he would discorporate overnight. The snow had abated, and now there was just an extreme wind chill. By the fifth day, Aziraphale felt that it was safe enough to return to the bookshop to fetch a few things. The boy from earlier had left, and Aziraphale was relieved to see that nothing was disturbed. The only thing out of place was a messy note thanking Aziraphale for his kindness. Aziraphale let himself have a small smile, and he silently thanked the boy for disturbing his reading. Had the boy not turned up at his door- he shuddered to think of what would have happened.   
He returned to Crowley’s house with a few books and some soft blankets and cushions to lay on the floor, so that Crowley wasn’t sleeping on the hard ground. Months later, when the city warmed up, Aziraphale quietly returned Crowley to his bed, and left his house, returning everything to the way it was. 

Years later, when Crowley finally emerged from his slumber, he had no idea of the near-discorporation he had narrowly escaped. All he found was a pile of letters with dates spanning across the century, all written by Aziraphale. He was touched when he saw that Aziraphale had done his best to write in the clearest and plainest font so that he could read them. A new century had begun, and Crowley and Aziraphale were destined to have a busy century ahead of them.


End file.
